I Am No Good At Love
by Alsemero
Summary: "The flat feels cold after John leaves for the third and, Sherlock suspects, final time." John/Sherlock, one shot.


Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, or the Noel Coward poem 'I Am No Good at Love'

Warnings: Language, violence, mild references to sexuality.

A/N: Feel a bit guilty posting this as I'm really meant to be updating my other Sherlock story, but just had a sudden idea, hope you like it. Warning, it's kind of depresso, sorry about that.

~III~

_I am no good at love_

_I betray it with little sins_

_For I feel the misery of the end_

_In the moment that it begins_

_And the bitterness of the last good-bye_

_Is the bitterness that wins. _

_(Noel Coward)_

The flat feels cold after John leaves for the third and, Sherlock suspects, final time. He refuses to turn the heating on, despite the January chill creeping in through the windows, and instead takes to his bed, knees drawn up and blankets pulled tight around him.

His bed. Not his and John's bed. Not ever again.

The very first day John had kissed him, a few weeks shy of three years ago now, Sherlock had gently pushed him back and looked him in the eye.

"Are you sure this is what you want? I... with me… it won't be easy."

"I don't want easy," John had breathed. "I want you."

And Sherlock had opened his mouth, to tell John that a relationship with him could never work, that he was too selfish, too awkward, too set in his ways. But instead, he found himself leaning forward and kissing John with an intensity that surprised himself, hard enough to drown out the voice in his head that whispered _this can never last._

But that kiss was followed by two unbelievable years; two glorious, wonderful years that pushed all doubt far from Sherlock's mind. Being with John felt like being with the other half of himself. Sherlock marvelled that for over thirty years he had never known that he was split down the middle, that he was lacking some fundamental part of himself, until John came along and completed him. He had dabbled in relationships and sex in the past but found the experience underwhelming; a temporary diversion, easily forgotten. And then John kissed him and Sherlock felt like Archimedes in the bathtub. So this is what love is! Why had nobody told him?

"You know you've ruined my objectivity," he observed lazily one day as John lay beside him in bed, resting his head on Sherlock's chest.

"Well, subjectively, I like you better this way," John smiled.

"But I used to view love scientifically! Break it down to its base components – the chemical endorphins, the brain stimuli, the physical responses. Now I've lost all sense of rationality."

"What physical responses are you talking about?" John asked innocently, his hand trailing down Sherlock's stomach. "You mean like this one?"

"John! That's exactly what I mean, how am I to, ah, improve my mind if… ah… you keep distracting me… oh God…" Sherlock trailed off, arching his back in pleasure.

"I'm chalking this up to a win for love," John said, and Sherlock was in no position to disagree.

So the days passed, in a happy blur. Sherlock brought John to crime scenes, they chased criminals, John cooked them dinner, and stroked Sherlock's hair as they curled up on the couch in the evenings. Sherlock was constantly amazed by John, the things he said, the way he talked, how he looked at the world. He wanted to break John into parts and study how they worked, see what made him tick. Loving John was like learning a new piece of violin music, the concentration and excitement that went into mastering every note, the sweetness and pleasure of a perfect melody. He told John this once, almost shyly, in a post coital haze. John caught both Sherlock's hands between his own, kissed them.

"I don't know what you're like," John said. "But trust me, it's something amazing."

Two idyllic years. Long enough for Sherlock to forget that all love was essentially a form of denial.

~III~

Inevitably, it all began to unravel. The first real argument they had was over a murder investigation. It seemed like an open and shut case, one East End gang member shooting another and dumping the body. Sherlock insisted on viewing the scene. He sensed that Lestrade was humouring him as he meticulously examined the body. But something wasn't right… The evidence was all laid out in front of him, neat, perfect. How often did that happen?

It was late that night, out at dinner with John, that Sherlock suddenly put the pieces together. Officer Dexley. The policeman that found the body. Sherlock recalled the slight discolouration of his collar, the watermarks on his trouser cuffs, and fitted the pieces together. He had killed the gangster (self-defence? Bribery gone wrong?) and then panicked and doctored the scene to frame a likely suspect. And right now he was probably in the evidence locker at Scotland Yard, covering his tracks.

John was in the bathroom. Sherlock hovered in indecision for a second before collaring a passing waiter.

"The man sat with me, tell him I had to go to the evidence locker," he said as he grabbed his coat from the rack.

"Sorry, you want me to-"

"Just tell him!" Sherlock threw over his shoulder as he headed for the door. John would understand.

He hailed a cab in the street outside. Sherlock considered phoning Lestrade but thought better of it, it would take too long to convince him that one of his own men was a murderer, it would be better just to present him with the irrefutable fact of the man's apprehension.

When Sherlock reached the evidence locker, the lights were out but he was certain he detected the sounds of movement coming from within. Without preamble, he opened the door and slipped inside. He heard a sudden intake of breath.

"Game's up, Dexley," he said briskly, walking into the dimly lit room. "I know everything. I know how you killed him, where it happened, how you transported the body. I admit I'm a little unclear on the motive but-"

Sherlock must have miscalculated the other man's position somehow, because Dexley was suddenly behind him, arm wrapped around Sherlock's throat. Sherlock attempted to throw the man forward but Dexley was too big, so he jammed his elbow back into his attacker's solar plexus. Dexley momentarily loosened his grip and Sherlock wriggled free, turning to throw a punch. But Dexley caught his hand and used his free fist to hit Sherlock squarely on the jaw. He ricocheted off one of the lockers, and fell to the ground. Dexley approached again and aimed a solid kick at Sherlock's ribs, then another. He dropped to his knees beside him as Sherlock gasped for breath.

"I am not," Dexley hissed, "going down for shooting some scum of the earth gang boss. Nothing personal, Sherlock." He put his hands around Sherlock's neck and began to squeeze. Sherlock kicked out but he couldn't seem to make contact, his hands scrabbled uselessly for a weapon. Spots began to appear in front of his eyes, his vision was narrowing, everything was getting dark…

Then suddenly, the pressure around his throat ceased. Sherlock coughed, drawing in a ragged breath, and looked up to see John pulling Dexley back by his hair; before slamming his head into a locker, once, twice, three times.

Dexley slumped to the ground, unconscious. John stood there, breathing hard, fists clenched by his side.

~III~

John didn't say a word all the way home. When they stepped into the flat, Sherlock decided to break the silence.

"Cup of tea?"

"You fucking idiot." John's hands were shaking. "You stupid, selfish bastard."

"Excuse me?" Sherlock said. "No 'Well done for solving the case, Sherlock'? No 'Congrats for taking the initiative'?"

"You could have been killed. Do you understand that?" John's voice was rising in volume.

"I could get killed crossing the road, do you understand that?" Sherlock snapped.

"It's not the same! You know it's not the same!"

Sherlock decided to try to be conciliatory.

"John, I had to go after him. He was a danger to the public. I had no choice."

"You had a choice! You could have told Lestrade and got police backup; you could have done it the safe way!"

"And when have I ever done things the safe way?" Sherlock looked at John intently. "This is who I am, John. You know that."

"And what would-" John's voice cracked slightly. "What would happen to me if you got yourself killed?"

Sherlock stepped towards John.

"I won't," he said softly.

John reached out a hand to trace the livid bruises around Sherlock's throat.

"I don't believe you." He said.

Sherlock pushed his hand away.

"Believe me, don't believe me, I don't regret anything I did tonight."

"So what you're saying is, you'll never change, and I can take it or leave it." John's eyes were very bright.

Sherlock shrugged.

"That's an accurate summary."

John let out a long breath.

"Then I'll leave it."

That night John packed his bags for the first time. Sherlock managed to persuade him to come back from Harry's two nights later. He promised to take better care of himself, to go through the proper channels, to stay away from dangerous criminals. He promised not to scare John again.

In truth, Sherlock himself was terrified. Firstly, for the decisive way John had held his ground and walked out, ten times less malleable as a boyfriend than he had been as a flatmate. Secondly, for the terrible emptiness of the flat without John, the way the hours of the day dragged on while the nights were sleepless and long, Sherlock reaching across the bed for someone who wasn't there.

Then, finally, for the absolute and certain way that John forgave him, the implicit trust he placed in Sherlock to live up to the changes he promised. His devotion frightened Sherlock. He never felt as though he had proved himself worthy of that kind of love.

~III~

Despite Sherlock's fears, the next few months were a marked improvement. Sherlock made a concerted effort to toe the line; he avoided potential danger and enlisted the help of Lestrade on any extracurricular operations he undertook. John seemed relaxed, contented that their fight had been a simple rough patch, part of the natural progression of any relationship.

Sherlock was not so sure. His and John's partnership now outstripped any previous relationship he had had before by a good six months, and the doubts of that very first night had begun to play on his mind.

Was he cut out for a long term relationship?

Was it really what he wanted?

Sherlock loved John, he knew that, but he was increasingly unsure what loving someone meant. Did he have to prioritise John above everything in his life? He had accepted certain changes to bring John home, but would more be to come? What was he willing to give up for John? Sherlock couldn't help but feel he was ill suited to answer any of these questions. It didn't come naturally to him. Love was not his special subject, could not be dissected, examined, and explained. In the beginning, that sense of mystery had made love attractive. Now, Sherlock found himself frustrated with the randomness of it all, the irrationality. Love was senseless.

After a few months, Sherlock's growing uneasiness began to coincide with an extremely lean period in consultations. Over seven weeks passed without a single diverting case to assist on, and Sherlock began to feel like he was going mad. He paced around the flat like a caged animal, and on the days John forced him out for some air, he prowled the streets on the hunt for trouble. He began to eat less and stay up later, tapping away on his laptop while John slept alone in the other room. After John's return, Sherlock had initially made efforts to be scrupulously polite in all situations – so much so that John had laughingly told him to "dial it down a notch, before you give Anderson a heart attack". But as the cases dried up, Sherlock grew more and more short-tempered and irritable, snapping at John and shutting down his attempts at conversation. John bore Sherlock's moods patiently at first, though he often asked Sherlock to come to bed rather than staying up in the living room.

"I didn't move into your room to sleep alone every night," John pointed out.

"But I can't sleep. How can I sleep, when I'm inactive in body and mind?" Sherlock said sulkily.

"I could find something to do with your body," John offered.

"In a bit, John, I think I may have found a lead on the internet about a suspicious death on the Isle of Man."

"Okay. Well, come to bed when you're done, yeah?"

"Yes, I promise."

But invariably, by the time Sherlock finally slipped into bed, John would be asleep.

~III~

It all came to a head one night over dinner.

John was recounting some medical mishap in the clinic, but Sherlock's eyes had long glazed over. He had read about a case in the paper, something about body parts washing up on the shore in Canada. Would it be worth taking a trip to North America to lend his assistance to the investigation? Based on the current evidence, it was clear that-

"Sherlock?" John sounded annoyed. "Are you even listening to me?"

Sherlock debated a lie, but found himself so irritated at being interrupted mid-thought that he made no attempt to censor himself.

"No, I'm not. Frankly, you're boring me."

"Oh I'm sorry." John put down his fork. "I was under the impression that couples shared the details of their day with one another."

"The interesting details, perhaps."

"So you telling me your theory on our greengrocer's illegitimate child-"

"Is interesting, yes. Some man with an ingrown toenail at your clinic, however-"

"It was necrotising fasciitis! And what you're saying is that the things you say are interesting, but the things I say are boring."

"By and large, yes," Sherlock rapped out.

John had gone very still.

"And why is that?"

Sherlock knew he should stop now, mend his bridges while he could. But some dark part of him wanted to keep going, keep pushing.

"Maybe it's because I'm so much more intelligent than you are."

John perceptibly flinched, like he'd been slapped. There was a long pause, then he cleared his throat quietly and stood up from the table.

"Well perhaps, if you're so clever, you should find someone of a more suitable intellect to be your boyfriend."

This time, John was gone for two weeks and, when he returned, it was on the proviso that they were on a trial period. Effectively, Sherlock was on probation.

Oddly, it was a position he felt more comfortable with than John's blanket forgiveness of before. He'd been on probation before, with many people. It was nothing new.

But John leaving a second time seemed to have snapped something irrevocable. Sherlock was no less serious about wanting to be with John, but somewhere along the way he had stopped believing in it. When John smiled hopefully at him across the breakfast table, the first morning after coming home, Sherlock was overwhelmed with such a powerful sense of sadness that he couldn't meet John's eyes. He glimpsed the future, sat alone at the breakfast table, skimming the paper, picking at dry toast, just like he had all the thousands of mornings before he'd met John. Only it wouldn't be the same as before, this time he'd be alone with the constant, sharp sting of memory, reminding him how two was better than one, how everything seemed brighter with someone there beside him.

He went through the motions of his best behaviour nonetheless, while mentally counting down the days to implosion. One of the many blessings of being with John had always been the long nights of uninterrupted sleep he seemed to bring. But once Sherlock stopped believing, insomnia set in. He'd lie awake long hours, staring at the ceiling, John nestled into the crook of his arm. He began to gradually feel exhausted, in a way he'd never really felt before, a kind of bone weariness that dulled his senses and made each movement feel heavier somehow. John noticed, of course, but Sherlock blamed lack of stimulation. But when the cases began to pick up again, and Sherlock needed his full wits about him, he could only see one solution.

~III~

Looking back, his decision to start taking drugs again would seem like a knowing act of self-destruction, as though Sherlock was daring John to leave again. But at the time, Sherlock felt in control. They allowed him to sleep, function day to day, helped him solve more crimes and be a better boyfriend. They gave his life its balance back. Also, though he never fully admitted it to himself, the drugs were a soothing reminder of the life he'd had before John, the life he could return to if he had to. But he was not careless, did not flaunt what he was doing. At the time, he truly didn't believe John would find out.

This underestimation of John, he would reflect later, was probably emblematic of most of the problems in their relationship.

When he arrives home, John is sitting on the couch, gripping something in his hand. He looks up to meet Sherlock's eyes as he walks in, and instantly, _instantly, _Sherlock knows it's all over.

"What are these?" John says without aggression, and he holds out the little bags in his hand.

Sherlock sits down opposite him. Relief is all he can feel.

"You know what they are," he says.

"I want to hear you say it," John replies evenly.

Sherlock does not say anything. They sit there for a long moment.

"I could have forgiven you the drugs." John's voice is very quiet. "But it's the lying, Sherlock."

"I… I didn't mean to lie." Sherlock's voice sounds strange, like it's coming from someone else.

"I don't know what you mean to do anymore."

"John, I can't… I can't explain it to you."

"I know you can't." John closes his eyes, briefly. "Do you remember when you said I was like violin music? And I said I didn't know what you were like?"

Sherlock nods.

"I've been thinking lately that maybe what you're like is an equation. A really, really complex one. And it makes you fascinating and mysterious and exciting, but maybe I'm not… I'm not the one to solve you."

John is crying now, and suddenly Sherlock is gripped by a terrible panic. What is he doing? Of course he wants John, of course he loves John, of course he'll do anything to make it work.

If John can't solve him, no-one can.

"I can change. I'll stop using, I'll stop lying. John, I swear…"

John shakes his head.

"I don't want you to change Sherlock. I think you're perfect as you are. I just don't think we're perfect for each other."

"We are, John, we are…" Sherlock starts off his chair, gets down on his knees in front of John. "You're my other half, you're my soul mate, please don't leave me…"

He is suddenly aware that he is crying too.

"Sherlock, listen." John cups Sherlock's face in his hands. "I love you. I have never loved anyone more than you in my life, and I never will. But I can't stay with you."

And he gently detaches himself and goes through to the bedroom, returning with two suitcases.

Sherlock watches him drag them to the door, then gets to his feet.

"You said… you said you didn't want easy," he pleads.

John looks like his heart is breaking.

"I know. I was wrong."

And then he's gone.

~III~

Sherlock lies in bed for hours, staring at the ceiling. Lestrade rings twice, but Sherlock does not pick up. He hears Mrs Hudson at the door, but does not answer. When he finally rises, it is eleven 'o' clock and the sky is pitch black. Sherlock wanders into the freezing living room and picks up his violin, but finds he cannot play a note. He stands there for a long while, holding the instrument at his side, feeling a terrible, gnawing ache inside of him.

The next day, he wakes early enough to see the sun come up. He lies in bed and watches the amber light play across the wall; the first of many sunrises, Sherlock supposes, that he will watch alone.


End file.
